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Cloud Strife, ex-SOLDIER, revolutionary warrior, and blademaster extraordinaire, has been reduced to a flower delivery boy.
Here's how it happens: he's prowling around Sector 5, looking for work to get his name out and the gil in, when his eyes land on the pretty flower girl he'd run into before.
She looks just as delicate and out-of-place as ever: a nodding blossom set in the middle of smog and shattered earth, woven basket hanging from her slender forearm like a swaying leaf. She stands right in a bustling intersection as if she belongs there, and not as if she sticks out like a—sore thumb? green thumb?—Cloud doesn't know.
When she sees him plodding down the road, she raises a hand in a cheery greeting.
"Good day!" she calls, eyes dancing. "What a coincidence!"
Cloud crosses the street to close the distance. A part of him wants to ignore her, but he knows that would be unnecessarily rude.
(The other part sort of wants to talk to her, but he'll never admit it.)
"Looks like you got back safe," he observes.
"Yup," says the flower girl. "So, you're the new merc." Her rose-pink lips curl into a playful smile, which is probably supposed to be disarming. Cloud only feels more on edge.
"Could be," he says. He stays his fingers, which are twitching for his weapon.
The flower girl sticks out a hand. "I'm Aerith," she says, lilting. "Aerith Gainsborough. And you are?"
He doesn't take her hand. "Cloud Strife."
Aerith keeps it there—awkwardly extended, unabashed. "Well, Cloud," she says brightly, "up for a job or two?"
That snags his interest. Eccentric florist or no, gil is gil.
"What did you have in mind?" he says, turning his shoulders to face her squarely. Still ignores her hand.
"Hmm," says Aerith, tilting her head. Green eyes drift over his face. "How does flower delivery sound?"
He stares.
She smiles.
He turns without a word, stepping down the beaten path when—
"Come on," she laughs. "I heard you were great at rounding up the children. This is basically the same thing! Except the opposite. And, well, with flowers."
Cloud hated rounding up the children. And rounding up the cats in Sector 7. He'll probably hate the opposite with flowers.
"Not interested," he says.
"Oh, but I promise it's much better!" She links her arm through his, seizing him. Her eyes glimmer in amusement. "Flowers don't give you lip, you see."
He automatically looks away. Women don't usually come this close, and the distance perturbs him.
"What's the pay?" he manages.
"Now we're talking."
She unlatches from his arm, a small relief. He can still smell the flowers from her hair as she steps away.
"How about," she says, another charming smile pulling at her lips, "we start with a maiden's kiss?"
His jaw twitches as his mind runs the transaction. "Sell price is 75 gil. Not worth my time."
Like a new sort of magic, her entire face lifts in a grin, bright and blooming to the sun lamps. "No, silly, not—I was being literal."
"What?"
"A maiden's." An elegant finger taps on her lips. "Kiss."
Cloud stares blankly at her for a solid moment. A maiden's kiss. Concoction, cures toad curses. Not worth more than 75 gil. Why would that make her touch—
Oh.
His brain finally makes the connection, and shockingly, he feels a flush of heat in his cheeks.
Damn it. He really can't handle women.
"Never mind," he says bluntly. He turns into the nearest corridor. A tactical retreat.
"Wait, wait!" Aerith half-laughs, half-calls. She darts in front of him, her steps surprisingly spry. "I'm mostly joking. I have some actual rewards."
"Flowers?" Cloud says dryly. He looks away from her eager face.
"Well, now that you mention it..."
He sighs and tries to move past her. She plants her feet in the ground and doesn't budge.
"What I actually have," she says with a cajoling smile, "is moogle medals. You saw what those kids have, right? There's some really useful things in there."
Cloud pauses, his mind automatically pulling up the listings he was interested in. Several manuals and accessories caught his eye when he was browsing. How a bunch of kids laid their hands on them, he doesn't know—but it isn't his place to ask. It's his place to acquire the medals and trade them in.
"I've gotten quite a few over time," Aerith says tantalizingly. "Helping out at the Leaf House can earn loads."
He shifts back, folding his arms. "How many flowers and how many medals?"
Aerith's gaze brightens visibly. She straightens and holds up three fingers, waggling them playfully. "Just three deliveries. There's some monsters around, though."
"Not a problem," Cloud says curtly. "And the medals?"
She hums for a moment. "How does five sound?"
Cloud's eyes narrow. "Fifteen."
"Fif—excuse me? No more than nine."
"Twelve."
"Ten. That's my final offer."
"Deal."
She holds up her hand with an expectant smile. "Great! I look forward to working with you, Cloud."
He doesn't know what she's doing with her hand, so he ignores it. "I'll gear up," he says with a nod.
Aerith clears her throat and slowly lowers her hand. "Um. Meet at the Leaf House?"
"Sure."
And that is how Cloud Strife, ex-SOLDIER, revolutionary warrior, and blademaster extraordinaire, is reduced to a flower delivery boy.
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Quest Accepted! Flower Power
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Cloud has slotted in some new materia and stocked up on ethers (just in case) before he pulls up to the Leaf House.
He expects the flower girl to hand him a map, stick the bouquets in his bag, and cheerily wave him off. Instead, he finds her standing at the ready with a silver staff and a small backpack of potions and cures, almost as if she's planning on—
Oh, great.
Aerith's eyes land on him as he enters the clearing, and she lights up. "Cloud!"
Cloud grimaces as he draws close. "What are you doing?"
"I thought this was our rendezvous point," she says innocently.
"What are you doing with that"—he gestures to the staff—"and that." Another gesture to the backpack.
Aerith's brows raise aristocratically. "Well," she says, all matter-of-fact, "it's not like I was going to make you go it alone."
Just his luck. An obsessive client deluded into thinking she's tough stuff who can defend herself.
"No." Cloud's tone is cold and cutting. "I agreed to a delivery contract, not a bodyguard one."
She grins. "Buy one, get one free."
"You paying me double?"
Her eyes twinkle. "That depends. Do you accept flowers?"
This whole job is starting to sound like a lot more trouble than it's worth. Cloud kneads at his temples.
"I don't bring tourists," he says flatly, "and if you're not paying for it, then I'm not going to guard you either."
"Oh, I wouldn't worry too much about the whole bodyguard business," Aerith says, unfazed. "I am a veteran defender of an innocent colony of flowers."
He crooks a brow. "Bees that scary?"
"Bees are good for flowers, I'll have you know," she says, still breezy, still unaffected. "No, I've had to fend off a few raccoons here and there."
"Raccoons."
"They can tear up entire gardens if you're not careful." She smiles at him with starry eyes.
It's impossible to tell whether she's joking, or just woefully ignorant.
Cloud noiselessly extends a hand. "Flowers," he says curtly. "I'll be back once they're delivered."
It's a line he's drawing: he'll do the job alone, or not at all.
Aerith's smile disappears into a petulant—aggravating—somewhat cute—pout. "Oh, no you don't. How am I supposed to check if they've been properly delivered if I don't go with you?"
"It'll be harder to check if you're dead," Cloud says dryly.
"Ouch." She clutches her chest. "That one smarts."
He only crooks his fingers, prompting her again for the bouquets. Her gaze flicks down to his gloves, then back to his face. Whatever she sees seems to convince her, because she lets out a defeated sigh and passes him three bunches of flowers: sprigs of green dotted with white and peach-colored blossoms.
"Let's make a deal," she says as he takes the blossoms.
"We already have."
She leans in—too close. He can count her lashes at this proximity. He takes a step back.
"I'll follow from a safe distance behind and stay out of your way," she says, raising a finger. "But I do need to follow you. How am I supposed to sing your praises to the community if I don't see you in action?"
Don't need it, Cloud almost snipes, but he stops short. Aerith is clearly a well-loved member of the community. A good word from her would be a key endorsement.
So instead, he only sighs and jerks his head to the road. She's clearly not going to give.
"Five meters behind," he says tersely. "Scream loud if you get ambushed."
Her face lights up, and she skips ahead of him. "You're the best, merc!"
Cloud plods after her. The next few hours, he senses, are going to be tiresome indeed.
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Key Item received! Floral Bouquets x 3
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The first location: a neighboring graveyard, now overgrown with nesting venomantes.
Cloud sighs, hefts his blade, and gets to work. His feet dance figure-eights around their soporific stings, and the flat of his sword angles off their swiping claws. He's just getting into the groove when Aerith—his precocious, adventurous, half-insane client—steps next to him, raising her staff as if she knows what she's doing.
Cloud sighs as he draws back, shifting in front of her defensively.
"I told you, stay back," he says sharply. "You're gonna get yourself killed."
"And I told you," says Aerith sweetly, "that I'm a professional."
"Florist."
"Still a professional." She twirls her staff dexterously in a hand.
Cloud's eyes narrow. "What are you, a healer?"
"Bold of you to assume," she says with a devilish smile, "that I'm not every bit as dangerous as you."
Arcane light pools beneath her feet. A silver staff raises high in the sky. Ice crackles forth in a torrential storm, and that is the crystalized, explosive end of two hapless venomantes.
It's almost impressive. Almost. Cloud's just relieved that she's knowledgable enough to not kill herself out of ignorance.
Only because he needs to get paid.
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Floral Bouquet lost.
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The first bouquet is successfully placed by a headstone, and Cloud is one-third of the way done.
He'd prefer to pick up the pace and make this job a quick one, but Aerith doesn't seem to enjoy the silence. She fills it up with questions to make conversation.
"What'd you do with the flower I gave you?" she asks curiously as they slog down the junk-ridden path.
Cloud shuffles to a stop. Wouldn't she be offended if he told her he gave it away? Maybe it'd be better to say he lost it. No, maybe that'd be worse.
Aerith tilts her head, clocking his expression. "Did you give it away?"
"Yeah," Cloud mutters. He turns away, walking faster.
"Ooh!" Aerith jogs alongside him, relentless. "Who'd you give it to?"
"A friend."
"Did she like it?"
Cloud's head whips in her direction. He hadn't mentioned gender. "How did you—"
"Maybe I can read your mind." She's smiling, equal parts whimsical and elusive.
Cloud turns back, jaw setting tightly. "She probably liked it. Dunno."
"And did she accept?"
"Accept what?"
"Your confession."
Cloud's mind gags and splutters to a halt. He stares wordlessly at Aerith.
Her smile widens. "I told you that lovers gave those flowers when they were reunited."
Well. Shit.
"It's not," Cloud says, grimacing, "it's not like that."
Aerith tilts her head, devilishly innocent. "Really?" she says slowly. "Your friend didn't know what it meant?"
"Not all of us are florists," Cloud says tersely. He grips a nearby ladder and scales it swiftly, hand over hand, hoping that she'll lose focus and drop the topic.
No such luck.
"I know that not a lot of sectors see flowers," Aerith says, climbing carefully, "but these flowers are very—well, they're quite the hot topic for young women. They're so romantic, and there's not much of that anymore. Hey, don't move on so fast! I'm still—still climbing!"
Cloud's feet falter. He was, in a subtle attempt to run the hell away, halfway across the platform while Aerith was still on the ladder. But her calling him out stirs up an odd emotion in the pit of his stomach. Guilt? Annoyance? Protectiveness? He can't name it.
Aerith pulls herself up on the platform and dusts off her skirt, shooting him a petulant glare.
"Anyway, all I meant to say," and she clears her throat, "is that maybe your friend thought you were confessing. And maybe she accepted you. Maybe you're together now."
"We're not together," Cloud says snappishly. "She didn't take it that way. Neither did I."
A noncommittal hum. "Well, if you're sure."
Yes, he's sure. He's so sure that he has no desire to discuss the matter further. Cloud sets off down the platform with a heavy stride, forcing Aerith to jog to keep up. At least the conversation is over with.
"When it's time for your wedding, would you mind buying your bouquets from me?"
"We're not getting married."
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Floral Bouquet lost.
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The third and final location: a collapsed expressway, crushed beneath the remains of a fallen plate.
Also, it's overridden with bandits.
Cloud is unfeeling as he cuts through the seedy vagabonds and crushes their limbs. Inconveniences like human empathy were forcibly drilled out of SOLDIERS; a single moment of hesitation could spell death for an entire unit, or destruction for an entire sector. Shinra had no use for toothless dogs.
When the deed is done and the expressway is cleared, Cloud turns to Aerith and sheathes his sword.
He expects a tinge of horror or fear in Aerith's eyes—that sickening, sad little glimmer that he sometimes catches in Tifa's—but he's surprised to find a grave, solemn understanding.
He sees an age belying that dusty green that he doesn't expect.
Aerith silently steps past him with the final floral bouquet, and lays it at the foot of the rubble. She bows her head and clasps her hands, drawn into a delicate, sacred state that Cloud doesn't dare disturb.
He thinks that she's praying. She calls it talking.
Thirty-six seconds have passed before Aerith lifts her head and rolls her shoulders. She exhales, and the heat of her breath puffs out silver in the cold expressway.
"Okay," she says, smiling. "Let's go."
She turns and sidles out the way they came—through fallen crates and slats of concrete. Cloud follows her shadow, eyes cataloguing every corner for any potential movement.
They walk in utter silence through rusty ladders, old cranes, and trashed tunnels. Cloud has never hated silence, but this one feels too weighty, even for him.
"Aren't you scared?" he tries.
Aerith ducks under a crumpled overhanging, and they break into fresh air. "Scared of what?" she says lightly, keeping pace.
Cloud reaches for the right words. "These bouquets... they're for condolences."
"Ooh." A little smile. "You know more about flowers than you let on."
"And the kind of person who leaves a condolence bouquet wouldn't have a stomach for violence."
The smile fades.
"Is that right?" Aerith says softly. Her pace slows.
Cloud pulls up next to her. He's not sure why, but he feels the urge to read her face. It's useless anyway; her expression is mysteriously stoic.
"Around this time," he says, "most people get scared of SOLDIERs."
"Of you?" Aerith says.
"All SOLDIERs."
But most people didn't see SOLDIERs. Aerith smiles—a little sadly, a little knowingly.
"Do most people run away after they see you in combat?" she says, clasping her hands behind her back.
Cloud doesn't respond.
Most people aren't alive after they see him in combat. They're usually dead. Either because of him, or because of whoever he's fighting.
Aerith glances at him. Suddenly, inexplicably, outrageously—she extends her arm and links it through his. He can feel its slim, warm weight in the crook of his elbow, velvet skin on his hardened forearm.
"Ta-da," Aerith hums. "I'm not running."
Cloud tugs, but she doesn't give. "I can see that."
"Silly. I hired you. If I ran away, that'd be a breach of contract. And that's liable to fines. Oh, the horror!"
He breathes out something almost like a chuckle before he can stop it. Aerith zeroes onto it immediately, her eyes narrowing on his mouth.
"Did you just—"
"Nope."
"Because it sure sounded like—"
"Don't know what you're talking about."
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Floral Bouquet lost.
New Directive! Head back to town to receive your reward.
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Cloud is still on guard as they return to Sector 5, the sun casting purple mirages on the plate's underside as it dips below the horizon. In his considerable experience, jobs rarely end smoothly. There's always one last hiccup: a dangerous twist, an unlikely disaster, or cold feet from the client.
Good thing, too; they return to find a man waiting in front of Aerith's house.
His silky, crow-black suit and hip-slung baton immediately brand him as a Turk. Flaming hair pulls back from his face, framing the hard angles of his jaw and cheekbones. There's a limber arrogance in the way he leans against the side gate, hand idly tossing a metal orb up and down like the flip of a coin.
"Reno," Aerith whispers.
The Turk salutes her with two fingers, his mouth splitting in a devilish smile.
"Evening, sweetheart," he calls. "I'm here to pick you up."
Aerith's spine is stark rigid, and the look in her eyes is shivering, wary. She doesn't draw her staff, but to Cloud, she looks every bit the cornered animal.
He draws his blade and steps forward, wedging himself between her and the Turk.
"There a problem?" he says.
"That's up to you," Reno drawls with a slow roll of his head.
Then his gaze lands on Cloud's.
His expression clears to keen, cat-eyed interest. He straightens, and his lips curdle up in a smirk.
"Interesting," he says with a click of the tongue. "SOLDIER, are ya? You know you're standing on the wrong side?"
Cloud keeps his grip relaxed on the hilt. "Depends where you're looking from."
Reno laughs at that, clear and almost boyish—but there's a sinister glee in his eyes as he casts a glance to Aerith. "Hey, sweetheart," he calls, "you know the man in front of you is also a Shinra dog? You should really grow some better company."
A sharp pain jabs up Cloud's neck. He shakes it away and moves.
His back leg punches into the ground and he's searing forward, the metal of his blade biting into the air. Reno jolts in surprise and slides back, pristine shoes grinding into the dust.
The tip of the buster sword barely clips his lapel.
"Look at what's in front of you, asshole," Cloud bites out. He lowers his stance, readying for another swing.
Reno laughs, sudden and bright. It darkens at the end, focusing on Cloud in a sizzle of anger and bruised ego.
"So, that's how you wanna play, is it?" he says.
He flips something out of his pocket—metal spheres that twist in a shield of electric energy. Taser balls, the SOLDIERS used to crudely call them. The technical term eludes Cloud in the heat of the moment.
The taser balls take to the air, expanding in crackling blue. They house enough voltage to knock him senseless for a good few seconds. Cloud focuses on slicing one down, then the next, then—
—Reno flies at him, electric baton crackling.
Cloud barely twists to the side in time, and the volt baton swings wide, sizzling right next to his ear. His foot shoots out and slams the Turk in the back, destabilizing him.
Damn, that was close. He would've been caught if not for mako-saturated reflexes. Trust a Turk to rely on their toys.
Reno regains his balance and circles Cloud. His gaze is steely, now, laser-focused; there's no hint of his earlier humor.
"Tell me," he calls. "What class were you?"
"High enough," Cloud says coldly, shifting to stand in front of Aerith. "What business does a Turk have with a flower peddler?"
"I thought mercenaries didn't ask questions."
A flick of the wrist. Cloud twists to the side as electric waves sizzle past him. "Not unless someone's messing with my paycheck."
Reno laughs, cold and humorless. Another flick of his wrist, and more taser balls fly towards Cloud.
"Don't you worry," he says. "I'm not gonna harm a hair on her pretty little head. We've just got some unfinished business."
The buster sword flies, fluid and sharp. The taser balls fall, dismantled.
"So do I," says Cloud. "So piss off."
He takes the offense this time: a darting lunge that cracks through the air, blade angled right at Reno's chest.
Reno twists away, the sword barely skimming his sleeve. But—
—Cloud snaps out an arm, and the flat of the buster sword catches Reno squarely in the chest. He reels at the blow, gagging.
"Give up yet?" Cloud bites out. He draws back into a tight stance, regaining his balance.
Reno chuckles thickly and pulls himself to his feet. "Could say the same to you," he says, and snaps his fingers.
Cloud realizes his mistake too late.
A burning jolt lances through his neck, seizing up every nerve in his body. He's trapped in an electric straitjacket, mind numb and dazed.
Something got by him. A taser ball, maybe. Or some kind of ranged pulse.
Reno saunters up, tapping his baton against a rubberized glove. He leans in close, his whisper cold and clear:
"Heel, mutt."
The baton crackles and sears upward.
Blistering pain rips up Cloud's torso, piercing every nerve from his abdomen to his shoulders. His jaw tears open in a wordless cry as he's bodily flung back, crashing into dust. Sand washes into his mouth and clogs his lungs.
He lies there in blaring agony, unable to move.
"Hey!" Aerith cries distantly, and tongues of fire sear right into Reno's face. "Don't hurt him!"
Reno weaves back; an ember still catches the edge of his hair, singing a few ends.
"Come on, Gainsborough," he snarls. His baton crackles as he raises it. "Don't make me do this the hard way."
Cloud forces his hands to push into the ground. His arms scream in burning, prickling pain. Doesn't matter. He can handle it. Already done so before.
Stand up—fight—or die—
His knees pull beneath him, aggravatingly slow. Get up. Hold the sword. It's heavy; do it anyway.
"Just leave us alone!" Aerith cries again, and more fire explodes from the head of her staff, swirling towards Reno.
She's going to exhaust herself like this. She's going to leave herself wide open.
Move, Cloud, damn it!
Reno's prepared this time; he pivots to dodge the wheel of flame and snaps his fingers, sending lightning crackling up his baton.
"Didn't want to do this," he sneers, "but looks like you won't come quiet. This won't cause any permanent damage, princess, but it won't feel cushy either."
He swings down, and a surge crackles from his baton when—
—Cloud's feet punch into the ground.
The buster sword flies up like a shield.
The baton is caught mid-swing, clacking helplessly into the reinforced metal of his blade. Reno's eyes widen.
Cloud leans in, letting the heat of his breath sear into Reno's face. "Catch me once, shame on me," he rasps, low and cutting. "Catch me twice? Doesn't happen."
The buster sword swings. Reno's sent flying, crashing into the running brook below with a soft splash.
Cloud turns to Aerith to check on her, but she only purses her lips and grips his arm. He instinctively tries to shake her off.
"What are you doing?" he manages.
A small hint of a smile plays about her lips. "Doing what every responsible fugitive ought to do: running."
And like an unstoppable current, she pulls at him, running up the bridge and down the road.
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New Directive! Protect Aerith.
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Aerith finds a tucked-in nook between two rusty buildings, populated with a surprising number of lazy cats, and Cloud can't help but think that she's done this before. Probably a concerning number of times.
They sidle into the nook, away from the public eye, away from Reno's bitter gaze and the searching eyes of the Turks.
Aerith's hand hovers over him, mako-green coalescing on the tips of her fingers, and Cloud feels the burning ache of Reno's sting ebb away. He's left with only a pleasant, cooling sensation, almost like mint has been applied directly to his nerves.
"Thanks for guarding me." She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. It's distracting. "I thought you said you weren't up for double duty."
Cloud blinks and looks away. "Can't get paid without the employer."
She laughs softly. "No. I guess not."
Cloud thinks of Reno lying in the bubbling brook. He thinks of that happy little cottage, surrounded by flowers and dolled up with verdant green. He frowns.
"Your house gonna be okay?" he says.
Aerith blinks. "Oh, yes. It's—they won't bother my mother, I think. They never have, at least."
Mother. He's vaguely surprised to hear that she has a mother; she seems so free-spirited that he would've guessed she lived on her own.
"Then why don't you leave?" he says. Not that it's his business. Whatever, he's already asked it. "If you've got a house, they can always track you down."
Her eyes glimmer with—mischief? Is she even taking this seriously? "Ooh, should I?"
He sighs. "Never mind."
Aerith giggles quietly, and her slim fingers retract into her small backback. She withdraws a little sewn pouch and holds it out.
"As promised, your payment," she announces grandly. "Plus a little something extra for protecting me earlier."
Cloud looks away. "Just part of the job."
"You're not very good at this whole mercenary business," Aerith says with a canted brow. "Most mercs jump at the chance to wring out more money." She grins. "Are you sure you even like gil?"
"Who doesn't?" Cloud says bitingly—defensively, and yanks the pouch from her with more force than necessary. He does things for gil. Only gil.
The pouch holds, as promised, ten moogle medals.
"And this is the bonus," Aerith says. She holds out something pale and glowing to him: another one of her signature delicate flowers, ethereal and alive, pulsing gently in the dusty, precious sunlight.
Cloud takes the velvet stem, studying the nodding blossom with green-flecked eyes.
"This a confession?" he says.
Aerith's face bursts into a surprised giggle. "Ooh, you can joke! You're evolving!"
Cloud smothers the tiny smile that threatens his mouth.
"So this is the bonus?" he clarifies.
She tucks it into his shoulder strap—again. Her fingers accidentally brush his collarbone, and he looks away.
"Why?" she says mildly. "Is it disappointing?"
He won't tell her that something about the flower is comforting: color in grey, life in decay, a speck of hope in a world burning to ash. Those thoughts are too poetic for a singleminded mercenary to have, so he won't share them.
Instead, he only clears his throat.
Aerith's smile brightens, unaffected, and she sits back on her heels. "Well, I think that it enhances your natural beauty. It matches your hair and brings out your beautiful eyes."
He looks at her sharply. "Don't give a damn about—"
"Come on, you can take a bit of disappointment," Aerith says cajolingly. "You're going to be leaving soon, no?"
Cloud cuts off abruptly. Leaving. Returning to Seventh Heaven. Finding Tifa again. Back to the missions, back to the grind, but back to a kind of home.
Aerith seems to notice the change in his expression. She leans in, the mischievous glimmer in her eyes taming to something that almost looks like fondness.
"But if you do stay," she says, "just know that this fugitive florist will always have a job for you."
She sidles out of the alley and pushes into the street with a skip in her step. Cloud watches her ribbon disappear behind a crowd of moving heads.
He rises to his feet and pockets the moogle medals, eyes falling on the blossom tucked into his shoulder strap. He thinks of the bright, untouchable smile of a carefree florist who obliterates hostiles and talks to plants and leaves bouquets for people long passed who have long ceased to care.
It's not a bad idea to stick around Sector 5 for a little while, he supposes. It's fresh clientele. Plenty of available jobs. And he already has a key endorsement.
He'll stay for just a little longer—maybe a day or two. Maybe three.
Only because he needs to get paid.